


Tainted Sugar

by okapi



Series: SPLORCH 'verse [2]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Aftercare, Alien Roleplay, Banter, Baskerville Research Facility, Episode: s02e02 The Hounds of Baskerville, Flirting, Inspired by a Sex Toy, John is a Bit Not Good, Kidnapped Sherlock, Kidnapping, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Oviposition, Restraints, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Shower Sex, Splorch, Threats of Rape/Non-Con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-11
Updated: 2017-02-18
Packaged: 2018-09-23 11:28:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9654917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: John exacts his revenge for Sherlock's Baskerville experiment.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A SPLORCH is a sex toy that may be used for alien oviposition roleplay.
> 
> Written for my LJ 1_million_word BINGO card square: Negotiation.

Darkness.

Death?

Sherlock heard heavy breathing that might have been his own.

Not death, then, unless he was about to be re-born into his next chapter. But wasn’t the mind-slate supposed to be wiped clean with every incarnation? And he still had memories, vague and shrouded to be certain, but the fog was lifting with each ragged exhalation.

Memories of Dartmoor.

Of Baskerville.

Of John.

Dream?

Possible.

Hallucination?

Also, possible. Even delirium was not outside the realm of consideration.

As Sherlock breathed, the cracks in his lens sealed themselves and disappeared.

Chemical minefield.

Murder weapon _and_ scene of the crime.

Brilliant, that.

Sherlock tried to move and found that he could not. If he were not dreaming, not delirious, not hallucinating, then he was held captive. Panic gripped him and he flailed, struggling, to no avail. He lay on his right side, with his hands and feet bound to a hard, flat surface. He wiggled. His waist was also bound.

Well then, a bit of the ol’ Harry Houdini and he’d be free—

No.

Still bound.

Think!

Observe.

He peered into the darkness.

Nothing.

He listened.

Nothing.

He shouted, then estimated the size of the room, for the temperature indicated that he was certainly indoors, perhaps below ground, he was not _warm_ exactly, but—

Naked.

Dream, hallucination, and delirium were becoming more remote; foul play rose to the forefront.

Sherlock remembered a man’s face, an explosion.

Frankland.

Perhaps Frankland had an unknown accomplice. Or perhaps there was simply someone who wished to avenge his death.

Love was a much more vicious motivator.

Wasn’t it, though?

Think!

Last memory?

John.

Breakfast.

John eating breakfast outside the inn.

Sherlock eating breakfast—

No, Sherlock never ate breakfast.

Coffee, black, two sugars.

“You were wrong. It wasn’t in the sugar.”

“Gotta see a man about a dog.”

He’d told John that there would be no long-term effects from the chemical exposure in Dewer’s Hollow, but what if he’d been wrong about that as well as the sugar? And, judging by the mild ache in his shoulders and leg, he’d not been kept in his current position for anything approaching ‘long-term.’

So, dream, hallucination, and delirium were once again contenders.

But so was evil.

Moriarty.

Moriarty was always a possibility.

Sherlock shivered.

The dog on the moor had not been Moriarty; it had been a flesh-and-blood canine enhanced by Sherlock’s mind as a result of the chemicals that he’d breathed, but that did not mean that Moriarty was not in the vicinity.

What had Doctor Stapleton said?

_“I have a lot of fingers in a lot of pies. I like to mix things up—genes, mostly; now and again actual fingers.”_

Moriarty liked to mix things up as well. Make people into shoes. Perhaps this was his kind of place.

Well, there was nothing for it, but to wait and see what happened.

And Sherlock did not have long to wait, for very soon, he heard a door open, someone approach.

And then, above him, two ovals glowed.


	2. Chapter 2

“Who are you? What do you want?” cried Sherlock.

Theatrical, scripted, but he could think of nothing better to say.

The ovals hovered above him. The light they produced was faint but enough to discern a visage of hard, wrinkly, grey skin.

“Show yourself, if you dare!” he shouted. “Don’t hide behind a mask!”

The eyes—for Sherlock knew, somehow, that the two lights _were_ eyes—were not looking at him, but behind him. He twisted his head.

A second pair glowed and hovered beyond his shoulder.

Sherlock shrieked.

It was like Dewer’s Hollow, and as at Dewer’s Hollow, logic fought fear-fueled images.

These creatures were not of this world.

Otherworldly. Foreign. No, not foreign.

_Alien._

Sherlock was being held captive by aliens.

Ridiculous!

He was being held captive by humans dressed as aliens.

Why?

Moriarty needed no why.

Sherlock shivered once more, then forced his body to maintain a slow, steady breath.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

When the rhythm continued of its own accord, without his conscious attention, a new thought, and a new panic, arose.

John.

The last time Sherlock confronted Moriarty, Moriarty had taken John and used John to bait him. Perhaps, this time, also—

Shuffling.

The two were moving.

Sherlock looked behind him. The second creature had vanished.

The creature in front of him was joined by one, two, three more glowing ovals.

These were objects, objects that did not shine half as bright as the creature’s eyes, nor did they float or hover as the eyes did.

Then, there was a sound.

Sherlock recognised the sound. He closed his eyes, slipped into his Mind Palace, and retrieved the reference: his and John’s initial, unauthorised tour of Baskerville.

It was the sound of a laboratory cart, rolling.

Sherlock was afraid.

Oh, yes, a tremendous fear laid heavy upon him, pressing down as his lungs fought valiantly to inflate and deflate in a measured beat, but that fear did not blot out the sliver of irony that also surfaced when he realised just where he was and what he was.

How many experiments had he conducted at 221B? How many times had the fire brigade visited? How many increases in the rent had Mrs. Hudson enacted to cover structural repairs and reimburse for destroyed furnishings? What about John’s missing Wednesday?

So many experiments, large and small, and here he was: a secret rat in a secret lab.

Sherlock opened his eyes.

The set of glowing tear-drops—rolling closer and closer to him, being pushed, no doubt, by the oval-eyed creature—were part of an experiment.

As the cart neared, Sherlock spied a long, thin tube beside the—

“Eggs.”

He was certain, almost certain, that it was his own voice that spoke.

The aliens were going to implant those eggs inside him, that’s why he was on his side, naked, and bound.

But then this could still be a dream, or a hallucination, or a bout of delirium, his mind argued.

But the physical sensations—the temperature, the growing muscle ache, the cut of the bonds—all felt, well, real, and time seemed to be passing as its normal rhythm.

The thought reoccurred: aliens had chosen him to implant their eggs.

Well, he couldn’t argue with their logic. He was, after all, extraordinary.

But what if they weren’t aliens.

What if it—he, the creature before Sherlock—was Moriarty?

But if he was Moriarty, then there had to be banter first. That was an unspoken rule. So, with no little force of will, Sherlock quelled his fear and announced,

“Those are some extraordinary, I mean, extraterrestrial suppositories, aren’t they? _My shits are going to be out of this world!_ ”


	3. Chapter 3

The creature did not respond. The glowing oval eyes simply hovered.

The lengthy silence finally broke Sherlock’s resolve.

“Come on, I’m playing the game!” he roared. “It’s your turn!”

Moriarty would respond.

Moriarty _had_ to respond, to show how clever he was, or just for the absurd fun of it.

To not be bored.

But if there was no response, then logic dictated that this was not Moriarty.

What then?

Dream, hallucination, or delirium?

No, Sherlock was too angry, too alive, for this to be his mind’s own artifice. He heard his own voice, his own breath, his own heartbeat, blood rushing through his own ears.

His mind rebelled, however, and refused to release its grip on the notion of Moriarty.

If this were not Moriarty, then it might be one of Moriarty’s thugs in disguise. Moriarty might be watching from another place, his Italian leather shoes propped up on a desk. Or someone’s back.

No!

Moriarty would not delegate this. Even at the risk of getting what was probably viscous alien goop on his beloved Westwood, he would not entrust this level of heightened farce to an underling or an associate.

Where was the fun in that?

It was the man himself. Or not.

And if it were _not_ the man himself, then it was someone else.

Someone new.

Now Sherlock was afraid.

Far better the devil that you know.

Every muscle in his body clenched.

No.

His mind rejected the information that his muscles, one particular set of muscles, were supplying. He clenched and relaxed again.

Those eggs were going to be implanted very soon, for there was no mistaking it:

his body cavity had been prepared to receive them.

Sherlock began to tremble.

But what kind of torturer prepared you for the torture?

The kind that did not consider it torture, the kind that genuinely believed it was an experiment.

For your good. Or someone’s good. For the good of all.

For science.

Sherlock was a rat. In a lab. And he would be tested as such.

Laboratory conditions.

Literally.

WAIT!

Sherlock closed his eyes and turned his head into the hard surface.

He’d said those words.

When?

“It was all totally scientific, laboratory conditions—well, literally.” _._

John.

Breakfast.

“I knew what effect it had had on a superior mind, so I needed to try it on an average one.”

John, already exposed to the gas, locked in the lab.

Sherlock, watching on the monitors, channeling menacing growls through speakers.

John, scurrying into an empty cage. Sherlock listening to his whispered report.

“It’s in here with me.”

John.

Breakfast.

“I was terrified, Sherlock. I was scared to death.”

“You were wrong. It wasn’t in the sugar.”

John.

Breakfast.

“Do you want some sauce with that?” 

Sherlock.

Breakfast.

No, Sherlock never ate breakfast.

And much like a twist of a kaleidoscope, the pieces suddenly came together in a marvelous design.

“Oh, oh, oh!” Sherlock exclaimed. Then he laughed and looked the creature straight in his glowing oval eyes.

“Well done. It was the sugar, wasn’t it, John?”


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock closed his eyes.

This was the second time that he’d mistaken John for Moriarty.

The first time had been at the swimming pool. John had opened his coat, revealing the Semtex vest strapped to his chest, and Sherlock’s confusion had instantly soured to horror.

This time, however, Sherlock had, quite rightly, put the pieces together and…

…bliss washed over him.

Crack shot. Acclimatised to violence. Nerves of steel. Strong moral principle—well, most of the time.

Drugging, kidnapping, imprisonment, sexual assault, and threats of fancy-dress extraterrestrial sodomy did cast a shadow on the last bit, didn’t it?

But the shadow made him more interesting to Sherlock.

Yes, John Watson was very interesting. Surprising. Astounding, actually—

No, scratch that, John was _not_ astounding.

He’d have needed help to pull off this spectacle.

Sherlock remembered the second set of glowing oval eyes.

Lestrade would’ve lent a hand, and he was conveniently in the area, but even a seasoned Detective Inspector of Scotland Yard couldn’t secure private access to a military research facility on a perverse, vengeful whim.

There was someone who could, though.

Mycroft.

Yes, his brother’s over-the-top, melodramatic, cake-crumby-and-pink-icing-smeared fingerprints were all over this affair. What’s more, Mycroft adored old films, though his taste usually ran towards ones that featured down-on-their-luck gumshoes and femme fatales, not invaders from outer space. But he’d be able to find the suits easily.

But what had been the quid pro quo? What had John offered Mycroft in return for his assistance?

It was a question that required an answer, but not now, not when there were more pressing matters.

The fun part, the game, had just begun.

Sherlock’s body warmed with anticipation.

“Do it,” he barked at the glowing eyes. “I want you to put those eggs in me. I’m ready, aren’t I? I mean, you prepped me very well, didn’t you?” A shiver ran through Sherlock, but he ignored it and continued, cocksure, and cock-stirring, in fact. “Can’t fault your taste, Mister Alien. If your species desire to breed with a singularly intelligent specimen of mine, you did a bang-up good job of selection.”

Was John smiling or fuming inside the monster shell?

Difficult to say. Perhaps both.

“Do it soon, or your eggs will melt,” Sherlock added, punctuating his command with an arrogant roll of the eyes that belied his current state of physical vulnerability.

Naked. Bound. At John’s mercy.

His cock twitched.

What John would do? Sherlock sincerely hoped that he wouldn’t be boring, tedious. Would he launch into a lecture about consent and boundaries? A bit more needling might forestall that.

“Turn the lights up, so that I can see you properly,” Sherlock urged. “I want to get a good look at my captor. Or do you not have the whatever-your-internal-organs-are to face your prey?”

Sherlock tried not to smile, truly he did, but he was having too much fun.

What next?

Sherlock was assembling the factors in a predictive equation when he heard the laboratory cart rolling.

Rolling _towards_ him.

Oh God, yes.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a-cumberbatch-of-cookies who wanted Sherlock's cocky grin wiped off his face. For those who are fans of Sherlock's cocky grin, don't worry. It'll be back :)

“Do you like roleplay?” asked Sherlock. “I mean, a-ah-ah, wow, that’s an egg in my arse, isn’t it? Um, so, roleplay. I mean, alien and lab rat is one possibility, but there are others. Pirate and mermaid, for example or—”

The body was transport, of course, but it wasn’t often that Sherlock’s transport was subjected to something like this.

“So maybe not roleplay, per se,” he continued. “Maybe just fancy dress. Not as fancy as you are now, of course. Fuck!”

Sherlock looked over his shoulder. There was light enough now to discern a bulbous grey head and a thin neck and grey, wrinkly skin.

“Maybe a kilt?” he asked, then turned back to rest his head on the hard surface. “Or, you know, your military uniform, perhaps, dress or, you know, the regular one, I mean, ugh! Oh, okay, that’s the second one, isn’t it?”

Silence.

“My legs and arms are bit stiff now, so maybe we could speed things along.” He tried to roll his wrists. “So, bondage? You, ah, like to tie people up? Maybe a bit of recreational spa-AH-AH!”

Fuck.

The cart was rolling.

“So, that’s it?” he called. “That’s the lot. Well, I’ve certainly learned my lesson, so now if you can just…”

Darkness.

The sound of a door opening, then closing.

“JOHN!”

Sherlock heard his own breath. His own heartbeat. The blood rushing in his own ears.

“JOHN!”

Nothing.

The eggs began to ooze.

Unpleasant, to be sure, but Sherlock wasn’t worried. John would be return soon and everything would be over.

* * *

John was never going to return.

Parts of Sherlock’s body were numb and parts were screaming in pain. The ooze was continuing its foul, tickling, torturously slow march out of his arse.

John had abandoned him.

No.

Yes?

No!

Sherlock wouldn’t do this, he would never leave John behind, and John would not leave Sherlock behind, either. I mean, he’d killed for Sherlock less than forty-eight hours after meeting him! He would not just abandon Sherlock.

Or would he?

Maybe this wasn’t a game.

Maybe it was revenge, pure revenge.

Maybe Sherlock had angered John, truly hurt him, perhaps even damaged him, well, damaged him further—Sherlock was not oblivious to John’s nightmares, his dark moods, his hypervigilance, and his hair-trigger temper—with the earlier laboratory experiment.

And now Sherlock was going to pay the price.

No, Mycroft would never allow that.

Unless it wasn’t John and Mycroft after all.

Unless it was Moriarty.

No, no, no!

Sherlock pinched his eyes shut as his thoughts swarmed like a kicked hive. His head began to throb.

The alien was John and this whole farce was payback for the sugar experiment.

That’s what this was.

But what if it wasn’t?

There had to be a way to determine the truth, sooner, not later. There had to be a safeword, a phrase that if it were John, would certainly end the scene, and it had to be sincerely uttered. If it were John, he would know the difference.

Time passed.

Sherlock's thoughts went to John:  John running in the lab; John in the empty cage; John’s voice, full of fear and crackling.

Then, when his thoughts were too much to bear, he opened his eyes and whispered into the darkness.

“I was wrong, John. I’m sorry.”

_CLICK-CLICK-CLICK!_

And with that, Sherlock was free.


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock failed to push himself to sitting for the second time.

“There is such a thing as aftercare!”

He failed a third time as a voice crackled over a speaker.

“Really? I don’t recall any after my torture.”

Sherlock collapsed onto the table, trembling as wave after wave of relief washed over him.

John.

Not Moriarty.

John.

Then he remembered the game was still on.

He coughed, then said weakly, “Didn’t I? Sorry. I’m a bit rusty.”

With a loud click, a spotlight shone on a pile of folded clothes on a cart in the corner. Sherlock followed the light until it stopped at a pair of doors.

“Showers,” said the voice from above.

Sherlock dragged his arms under his torso for a fourth attempt, then paused.

“You know, since you’re quite right in that I owe you a bit of aftercare and seeing as how I could use some help here, why don’t we shower together? I’ll pet your shell-shocked nervous system and you can wash alien goop out of my arse.”

A door cracked behind Sherlock. He had just managed to roll himself onto his other side when John emerged from the darkness.

“You look bloody awful!” exclaimed Sherlock.

John huffed and crossed his arms over his chest. “The suit’s hot. Room’s hot.”'

John’s white vest was plastered to his chest, and his hair was matted into clumps. His jeans were dry, though, so he’d just put them on, so he must've worn just pants in the alien costume.

Had he been aroused by any of it?

Another question for a later time and place.

It was Sherlock’s turn to play.

“You need a shower more than I do, and I’ve got E.T.’s spunk in my arse!” he cried.

“Ova,” corrected John, imitating Sherlock's voice.

“I don’t know, the tube was a bit dickish, wasn’t it?” Sherlock countered.

Their eyes met, and a spark of a smile—not yet on John’s lips—flickered in his gaze.

Once more, Sherlock was cock-sure and cock-stirring, and perhaps something similar was on John’s mind, for the next thing he said was,

“You’re an utter cock, Sherlock.”

“So are you, on rare occasion. But I still have a question, and, given what I’ve just endured, the very least that you can do is answer it.”

“All right.”

“Pirate or mermaid?”

“Oh, you bloody tit!”

John’s tone might have been exasperated but his touch was gentle as he reached for Sherlock and helped him to his feet. He slipped a steadying arm around Sherlock’s waist, and Sherlock leaned against him as they hobbled together towards the doors.

“Are you going to let me kiss it and make it better?” asked Sherlock.

“Nobody can do that,” muttered John.

“I don’t know. We did pretty well with the limp, didn’t we?”

John stopped. Then he smiled, that soft, sweet John smile.

“Christ, Sherlock.”

Sherlock smiled, too. “I know. Utter cock. So?”

They resumed their march, and when they reached the doors, John said,

“Neither, but the uniform’s a possibility.”

“YES!”


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock coughed and watched the water finally run clear before it disappeared down the drain.

“Well, that was…”

“You asked for it,” said John gently. He was still smiling and looking up at Sherlock with a tenderness that Sherlock wished he could bottle and save for always. John returned to his position behind Sherlock and squat, the better to direct a final splash of warm water towards the cleft of Sherlock’s buttocks, then sweep it down the back of Sherlock’s legs. Then he stood.

“I much prefer being patched up in the Baker Street loo-cum-infirmary than having my pipes flushed here, John.”                                                                                                                                                                                    

“I prefer patching you up, too.” John soaped Sherlock’s back and shoulders.

Sherlock looked over his shoulder with an eyebrow raised.

“I’m a doctor, Sherlock. Should be obvious: I like kissing it and making it better.”

Sherlock grinned. “I’ll remember that.”

John snorted. “Not a license to get yourself hurt on purpose, git.”

They switched places so that the spray rinsed Sherlock’s back; then John pressed his lips to Sherlock’s neck, directly atop the pulse that Sherlock knew must be fluttering like a pair of hummingbird wings.

“Your turn,” said Sherlock. They both stepped out of the water. Sherlock rubbed John’s chest and stomach until the soap lathered, then dipped his hand lower to give John’s cock a single stroke.

It was half-hard and gorgeous.

“John.”

“Yeah, not here, not now, but yeah.”

Baker Street. Sherlock’s bed. No, John’s bed. The weight and thrust of John pressing Sherlock into the mattress with the scent of John—of their mingled arousal—surrounding him.

God, yes.

Sherlock cupped John’s sacs with a soapy hand and fondled them.

“Sherlock.”

“You do this in the shower when you’re wanking,” said Sherlock.

“Pervert. Are you watching?” John closed his eyes and braced himself against Sherlock’s shoulders.

Sherlock shook his head. “Listening. Once in a while.” He felt the pinch of John’s teeth on his neck.

“Consent and boundaries, Sherlock.”

“I’ll knock first now, promise.”

John groaned. “Christ, and I might let you in. Let you shove me ‘gainst the wall, do what you want with me.”

The image flashes in Sherlock’s mind. He wanted to take his own cock in hand, but John pulled away suddenly, his expression dark.

“Sherlock.”

How were there so many ways to say one word?

“I don’t make promises I can’t keep, John, but I will swear ‘never again’ for something this petty. Not a case, not an experiment.”

John studied his face, then finally nodded. “It’s enough, I suppose, and for my part, well, I have no plans for an encore. This was a unique congruence of events.”

Sherlock nodded towards the door leading to the laboratory.

“Did you like any of it?”

John smirked, then shrugged. “The eggs and alien bit were—“.

“Mycroft’s idea.”

John frowned, then nodded. “Yeah, how did—never mind, but, uh, well, other parts were—“

Shot in the dark, but one worth taking.

Sherlock turned off the tap and stepped through the steam towards John, crowding him, forcing him to step backwards until his shoulders were against the wall. “Did you like tying me down, John?” he purred. “Having me at your mercy?” He curled his arms beside John’s head and leaned so that their cocks brushed.

John looked at Sherlock through half-lidded eyes and licked his lips. “Yeah, I did.” Then his gaze followed his hands as they ran up and down Sherlock’s torso. “But I wanted you awake. And I wanted to touch you, tease you, drive you absolutely out of that proper genius mind of yours.”

Sherlock groaned as John took his cock in both hands.

Baker Street. Sherlock’s bedroom. Wrists tied to the headboard. Begging for release. John’s mouth. Everywhere.

“I’d like that, too,” said Sherlock, looking down to watch John’s ministrations.

“Yeah, I can tell. And maybe if you’re very good, I’ll wear the uniform while I do it.”

“Oh, God. I’ll be good, John. I’ll be so good.”

“You _are_ good, Sherlock.” One hand went around Sherlock’s neck, fingers twining in his hair, the other continued to stroke Sherlock’s cock. John’s cheek was pressed to Sherlock’s, both their heads tilted down to observe Sherlock’s cock pushing though John’s fist. “You were right. There’s nothing wrong with you. You’re extraordinary, amazing, fantastic, and so good. So very, very good,” chanted John.

And in that warm, wet moment, Sherlock believed him. He let the words seep into his mind and fill the crevices and cracks.

And came with John’s name on his lips.

Sherlock fell at once to his knees.

“Christ, Sherlock, take it easy.”

“I’m fine. You said so yourself after a tedious—”

“Necessary.”

“—number of checks.” Sherlock studied John’s cock and found it no less gorgeous for being now at eye level. “You know, I much prefer this one-eyed monster to your two-eyed one, John.”

John giggled, a high-pitched charming noise. Sherlock looked up and observed, “You’re happy.”

John met Sherlock’s gaze and caressed his cheek. “Obvious,” he said, in a very poor imitation of Sherlock’s voice, then added in the softest version of his own, “I’m with you.”

Sherlock blinked, swallowed, stared.

“I’m sorry, John.”

“I know.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt you. I’ll write you a song, buy the milk—“

John thrust his hips forward. “Suck it and make it better, Sherlock. Then let’s get out of here. Your choice: a nice bed at the Cross Keys or a night train back to London.”

“Home, John. And let’s not spare the horses.”

“Yeah, my choice, too.”

“First class compartment to ourselves. Against the window.”

John chuckled and began to pet Sherlock’s head in a way that made it near impossible not to purr.

“The fuck or the cuddle?” he asked.

“Both, if feasible,” replied Sherlock. He kissed the leaking tip of John’s cock, then he remembered.

“Mycroft?”

“Lestrade.”

Sherlock tilted his head, let his eyes drift to the door.

“Yeah, your brother has some unusual ideas about courtship.”

“Yeah. Nature, nurture, who knows? Come here.”

Sherlock licked John’s cock from base to tip, then put the whole cockhead in his mouth and began to suck, and as John proceeded to call him, quite correctly, a gorgeous cock-sucking bastard among other things, he wondered if it always would be this way between them, that no matter how polluted and corrupt the means, the end would always be sweet.

He hoped so and swallowed John down.


End file.
